


The Valley of the Shadow of Death

by theroadgoeson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Post Reichenbach, seven stages of greif
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroadgoeson/pseuds/theroadgoeson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking John and Sherlock through the seven stages of grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Valley of the Shadow of Death

Denial, Shock

John felt the cold wind nip against his face. He looked up at Sherlock- his detective- standing on top of the hospital. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. His best friend, who had become far more than just his friend, was not a fake. No matter what Sherlock said, he wouldn't believe him.

"I invented Moriarty," Sherlock said. John could hear the emotion in his voice, something so out of character for him.

"No. What about when we first met, you knew all about me," John said, close to tears.

"No one could be that clever."

"You could," John would never let anyone tell him differently.

John saw Sherlock jump.

No. John ran towards his friend. Sherlock couldn't be dead. He couldn't have jumped.

John pushed past the people surrounding Sherlock. No, no, no. Sherlock, please. He grasped at his friend's wrist. Already, it was cooling. There was no pulse. The spectators pulled John back. He released Sherlock's wrist.

The paramedics took the body away. John just knelt on the ground, staring at the pool of blood. The concrete was so cold. John leaned forward and placed his hands on the ground. He leaned his head down and closed his eyes.

He stared at the blood.

He saw the faint outline of the building in the reflection.

He stared.

No tears fell, not yet.

Guilt, Pain

Lestrade's white car drove up next to the hospital. He didn't come in the police car, Sherlock didn't like it, and he assumed John wouldn't either. John was still kneeling on the ground, a macabre devotee visiting the shrine of his lost god. Lestrade picked him up and led him to the car. John was nonresponsive and only moved because it felt like the socially acceptable thing to do. The right thing was to stay there, to stay in front of that hospital and wait for Sherlock to return or for John to go the same way, because there was no way he could continue without him.

Lestrade drove forward, holding back his own tears for the man he thought of as both a brother and a son. He looked over at John. He was staring at his hands, open in his lap. There were traces of Sherlock's blood on his hands, the visible signs of the traces he left on the doctor's heart.

"I'm sorry, John," Lestrade said, turning back to the road.

"It's my fault," John said to no one, still not looking up.

Lestrade was startled, "No, John, if it was anyone's fault it was mine."

"I doubted him."

"So did I!"

"I was his friend. He trusted me, and I doubted him. I didn't get to him in time to tell him I believed in him."

"John... he would have jumped anyway."

"No he wouldn't have!" John yelled.

Lestrade stayed quiet. It was pointless to try to argue with John when he was like this. He pulled up outside of Baker Street. He turned off the car and got out. He walked over to the other side and opened the passenger door. He helped John get out and led him to the door. The cold wind was still blowing and ruffled the edges of Lestrade's coat. The icy chill crawled up the pair's spines. They felt the chill of the day and of the day's events. Lestrade shivered, John stared at the door.

It struck Lestrade that John wouldn't open the door. He rang the doorbell. They waited until Mrs. Hudson answered, a smile on her face that quickly faded when she saw the somberness of their faces and the blood on John's hands.

"Oh, dear, what happened? Where's Sherlock?"

John just shook his head as Lestrade led him inside. He whispered to Mrs. Hudson as he passed, "I'll tell you once I've got him upstairs."

John trudged up the stairs and stood outside his door, simply staring at the ground. Lestrade opened the door and led him inside. He set him down on his armchair.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" John grunted in reply. Lestrade went to the kitchen and stared at Sherlock's experiments, never to be touched again. He blinked back tears and turned on the kettle. He waited for it to boil, leaning over the sink and holding back tears as best he could. He poured the cup of tea when the water boiled and brought it to John. He set it on the coffee table and went downstairs to break the news to Mrs. Hudson.

John stared at Sherlock's armchair. He moved only to blink. Still in shock, he didn't cry. He only stared.

How could he do that to his friend? How could he doubt his genius? If he only stuck by him. Sherlock lied at the hospital to make it easier for John, but it didn't help. It only made things worse, knowing that his friend lied because of his doubts. How could he?

He leaned forward and hid his face in his hands. Shame and guilt and grief covered him. He cried then.

Sherlock woke. Molly opened the body bag once her morgue was locked. Sherlock sat up and simply looked at Molly. Molly looked back. Both knew what they did- and the consequences. The chill of what they had done shaked their bones. The ice in Sherlock's eyes melted and transferred to his skin. How could he?

They heard a knock at the door. "Miss Hooper, please let me in."

Molly looked at the door, panicked.

"It's fine, Molly, let him in. He's my brother."

Molly let out a breath and opened the door. Mycroft walked in, looking somber. He walked straight to Sherlock and looked down as he closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said, "It was my fault you got in this mess."

"How's John?" Sherlock replied, not caring for Mycroft's apology.

"He spent the past hour kneeling outside the hospital."

Sherlock buried his face in his hands. "How could I?"

"It wasn't your fault, Sherlock, you had to."

"But I still did it," Sherlock growled as he glared at Mycroft.

"You won't be able to return for a while," Mycroft said, ignoring Sherlock's comment, "At least not until your name is cleared."

"I know," Sherlock said standing up.

"It wasn't your fault."

Sherlock didn't reply and instead walked into Molly's office, planning on spending a few days staring at the wall.

Anger, Bargaining

It was Sherlock's birthday. A couple months after he jumped. It was the beginning of fall too. John sat in the cab with Mrs. Hudson, dreading what was to come. He hadn't cried since that first day. He only went to work when needed and he was forced to eat. The cab was about to turn into the graveyard when John sighed, closed his eyes, and bowed his head.

John exited the cab then helped Mrs. Hudson out. The wind shook them to their core. They bundled up closer in their coats. They could already feel the chill of winter, in their bodies and in their soul. They approached the grave, feeling the icy wave of sadness inundate their hearts.

"I still have all his stuff; I don't know what to do with it," Mrs. Hudson said, sadness and anger engulfing her. John just stared at the tombstone. He thought that there should have been an epitaph, something to describe what Sherlock meant to the world.

He noticed that Mrs. Hudson was getting madder, so he quieted her. She stopped and left, leaving John alone with his thoughts and the imagined ghost of the detective.

He paused for a moment, unsure of what to say. The only thing he wanted was for Sherlock to be alive, for him to come back. He stared at the tombstone. How could he word it? His regret, his fear, his wishes?

"You told me once that heroes didn't exist," John began.

He wanted desperately to tell Sherlock he was sorry for what he did, for not believing in him. He wanted- needed- Sherlock to be alive, to return to John, and Baker Street, and how things were before.

"You were the best man, and the most human human being I've ever met, and not one will convince me that you told me a lie. I was so alone, and I owe you so much." John stopped, not knowing how to continue. He turned around, then turned back, sudden resolution hitting him.

"Just one more thing, Sherlock, one more miracle. For me." He paused. He knew what he was about to say was ridiculous; nothing he could say could change what happened. "Don't be dead. Just stop this. Stop this."

John stopped, and stared again at the tombstone. He saw Sherlock's name, to so many now that name meant fraud, to a few it still meant friend. To John it meant change, and excitement, and life, but mostly "Sherlock Holmes" meant love- a warmth that decided to enter John's life when he thought nothing could warm the coldness of his heart. It meant Italian restaurants and not-dates that turned into chasing cabs and curing illnesses. It meant the sanctuary of a warm flat and the burn of chemicals as he watched television. Two words, "Sherlock Holmes," they meant the person John fell in love with.

He turned away from the cold stone, nothing like the person who lie beneath. He walked away, the cold wind ripping away all warmth and love Sherlock left behind.

Depression, Reflexion, Lonliness

John returned to the flat, feeling empty. It had been a month since he went to the graveyard. He worked that day, only to pay the rent. The job that once gave him joy delivered nothing to him now. It was almost as if when Sherlock left, he took all of John's happiness with him.

John rarely cried now. His sadness was beyond tears. Nothing helped him. He spent most of his nights replaying that day at St. Bart's over in his head. He replayed Sherlock falling; he replayed Sherlock's body hitting the ground; he replayed seeing the lifelessness of his eyes, now reflected in John's.

John barely ate, only enough to keep him alive. He spent most of his days staring at the wall, thinking. He couldn't do much anymore. Everything he did led him to thoughts of Sherlock, not that he thought of much else anyway. He figured, though, that it would be better to do nothing and think of Sherlock than fail at doing something because he was thinking of Sherlock.

He sat now in his armchair, like the day he died. He continued to stare at Sherlock's armchair. It was winter now and it was snowing outside. After four months, the weather finally reflected John's mood. It was freezing in the flat but John didn't care. He decided that physical pain was nothing in comparison to the pain he felt since Sherlock jumped.

He looked past the chair out of the window. The fluffs of snow swirled past the window. John stared at them. He thought about the nature of the snowflakes. They were frozen bits of water floating in the sky until they became so heavy they fell as beautiful flakes down, down, down until at last, they hit the ground and they melted, they were absorbed, and finally, they became nothing. They were like Sherlock in some respects. But John wished the last part, the hitting the ground part, would never happen. He wished that the flakes would stay floating, soaring through the air and never landing, filling the sky with white, colouring out the clouds from whence they came and changing the sky from blue and grey to pure white. He wished he could dissappear in them, never to be seen again.

He bowed his head. He stared at his hands. Normally he couldn't bear to look at them. Every time he tried he saw the blood on his hands from that first day. He always thought that it was fitting that he literally got Sherlock's blood on his hands, after killing Sherlock.

John looked up at the snowflakes again. He thought he saw the shadow of Sherlock's falling body in their clouds.

He cried.

Sherlock was at Mycroft's house. He had yet to decide what to do while waiting for his name to be forgotten. He sat at the fireplace, staring into the flames. The heat from the flames didn't touch him. Ever since that fall, he felt cold. Since the moment the cold, lifeless concrete touched his skin, he felt a coldness in his heart. Not a distance, not the coldness he felt before, his heart wasn't brick, it was the opposite. He felt a cold vice grip his heart, and nothing felt the same.

He did nothing during his stay at Mycroft's. He never slept, except when he collapsed from exhaustion. He never ate, except for when Mycroft made him. He spent his days staring at the walls. Sometimes he hacked into Mycroft's laptop and checked the CCTV. He would spend hours checking up on John. It hurt Sherlock so much to see what he did to his doctor. How much he hurt him. He could see it written in his face, his walk, the way his shoulders stooped.

Sherlock cried only once. It was the first time he checked the security cameras and he saw John at the supermarket. John had run into Lestrade there, both of them looked haggard. But John was leaving the market, when Lestrade went up to him. Sherlock could tell that Lestrade asked how John was, but because John was turned away from the camera, he couldn't see his reply. Sherlock only saw the way John's head dipped, the way his hands covered his face, the way he shook his head dejectedly and left.

Sherlock shut the computer then. He curled his knees to his chest and cried silently. He spent hours like that. Eventually, he ran out of tears. Mycroft came home and saw Sherlock. His face was red and cold with dried tears. Mycroft said nothing- the Holmes brothers were not known for their emotional vocabulary.

"The cameras?" Mycroft asked, already knowing the answer.

Sherlock answered only by nodding his head. Mycroft walked over and picked up the laptop, he replaced it in his desk and walked away. As he reached the door, he stopped and bowed his head; he took a deep breath and walked away. He didn't know what to say to his brother who was so broken he couldn't speak. It hurt him seeing Sherlock like this, but knew that the only thing he could offer was his home for a bit.

Sherlock stared at the wall across from him all night that day. Eventually he picked himself up and walked towards his bedroom. The next day he checked the cameras again. The next day he did the same. For two weeks, every day he checked. He didn't cry again, but every day he felt worse. He didn't know why he was being so illogical in hurting himself like this, but he couldn't stop.

Currently, he continued to stare into the fire. The flames danced around the logs. The fire was beautiful in a way, waltzing around the logs, a chemical reaction changing the carbon unit of wood into carbon dioxide and water. Fire didn't ask for anything, just food. It gave so much, heat and light, inspiration for poets and artists and writers. Eventually it died too. It withered into nothing.

Sherlock turned away, feeling none of the heat, light, or inspiration from the fire. He looked out at the snow, the same snow John was watching. He looked away from the snow, wishing he could feel and think of nothing.

Upward Turn

It was May, ten months after the fall. John had begun to work more. At some point earlier that spring, he decided that it was pointless to sit around. Urged on by Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, he began to take more days at the clinics. Eventually, he started to even enjoy it, somewhat. He was still put on the verge of tears when he thought of that day, but he tried to avoid it whenever possible. He came to the conclusion, that even if he did kill Sherlock, he wouldn't want John to sit around and do nothing with his life.

Slowly, he began to go out more. He ate more often, and a couple times he even went to the pub with Lestrade. He smiled a bit more, he laughed occasionally. When he let go of some of his guilt, his life became easier. His eyes lightened, his lips were more willing to turn upward. He even began to meet new people.

One time, while out with Lestrade, he met a girl. He even flirted with her. Her name was Mary Morstan. She was nice enough, if a bit plain. She was average height, with dark brown hair and brown eyes, average weight with just enough curves. John thought she was beautiful. She was the one who was able to bring his smiles on most easily, make him laugh the most. She made him feel that his life was worth something again.

When he decided to tell her about Sherlock, she comforted him. She let him cry on her shoulder when he recounted that fateful day at St. Bart's. She held him when he couldn't speak anymore and kissed him softly, sweetly, and deeply.

They made love that night. John woke in the morning and felt that he had finally found someone who could make him feel something. Feel better about himself and his life. In Mary he found hope, he found a love he had not known for a while. Not since Sherlock.

Reconstruction

This was John's fifteenth date with Mary. They had been together for almost a year now, and it had been two and half years since the Fall. They ate together at a nice French restaurant, Mary's favourite kind of food. They were both dressed nicely, John in a suit with a knit tie and Mary in her best black dress. They smiled at each other across the table. The candle lit between them gave them no warmth, but John felt that it illuminated Mary's face in the most beautiful way.

They ordered a bottle of wine and when it arrived they toasted to them. They rose their glasses and clinked them together. John swore that her smile lit up the room. They leaned over the table and kissed each other quickly, just a simple peck.

Their dinner arrived. The two ate, chatting away, smiling and laughing. When they were finished, the waiter took their plates away and they ordered dessert- crème brule. John finished first while Mary still had half of hers.

"Mary," John said nervously, "There's something I've been wanting to ask you for a while now."

"John what are you doing?" Mary asked as John held her hand.

"Shh, shh, this is difficult enough without you asking questions," John joked. He suddenly became serious again as he looked her in the eye and said, "When I first met you, I was alone and depressed. You lit up my life, Mary, like a flame from Heaven. You made me happy in ways I never thought I could feel again. You became my light and my love and throughout it all you've been there for me. We've known each other for a while now, and I can tell you, you're one of the best people I've ever known. I was alone and defeated, and you came into my life and lit me up. I love you, Mary Morstan," he said as he dropped to one knee and pulled a ring from his pocket, "And would you do me the greatest honour of being my wife?"

Mary was crying at this point and nodded 'yes' just before she dropped to the floor with her now fiancée and hugged him. She pulled back and kissed him square on the lips.

Sherlock stayed in dingy hotel rooms now. He had moved out of Mycroft's house after he decided what to do. He realized that the best way to spend his time was destroying Moriarty's criminal empire. For just over a year now, he had slowly begun to cut the strings of the web crafted by the consulting criminal.

Sherlock felt that he had a sense of purpose now. He spent all of his time searching for the remnants of the empire and killing them off, one by one. In the rare moments he wasn't working, however, he thought of John. He thought of how he would return, in maybe one more year, triumphant and winner at last. He would tell John of how he had spent his time these past three years. He would hug his friend and tell him that he lied, only to save his life. He would tell him that he loved him and that he would kill for him, that he did.

Sherlock stared out the window now. He was in the Ukraine and it was summer. He smiled into the night thinking of his John.

Sherlock would return, someday. And he would be so happy when he did.

Working Through

It was Christmas, three years after that day at St. Bartholomew's hospital. John was now married to Mary. They shared a house now. John had moved out of 221B when he got married. The house was small but cozy. It had a fireplace that John loved to sit in front of, like an old man, and read the newspaper.

For some reason, Christmas had always been the toughest time for John. Ever since that first Christmas, five months after the fall, he associated the day with Sherlock. He never understood why, but this Christmas was no different.

Every Christmas he had a masochistic mental ritual. He would relive the fall in his mind, then he thought of all the events that led up to it. Why he chose such a painful annual memorial he never knew, but he did it nonetheless.

This year, he sat in front of the fireplace in a warm jumper and a glass of scotch. He relived the day. In his mind, he stood again in front of St. Bart's, he heard Sherlock telling him he was a fake, he saw his friend fall forward and fly through the air like a macabre and deformed raven. He saw Sherlock hit the ground. It was at this point that John began crying.

He looked into the fireplace, but he saw not the logs or the flames, only the dead, lifeless, and broken body of his best friend. He took a sip off his scotch, but the characteristic warmth of the alcohol did not race down his throat. He felt only the coldness of depression pressing on him. He drank again. He closed his eyes, but the body of his friend was burned into his retinas. He opened his eyes.

Mary stood in the doorway, watching her husband's torment. When he opened his eyes, she walked towards him. She grabbed the scotch from his hands and set it on the table. She knelt in front of him and cradled his hands in her own. She kissed his fingertips and palms. She then grasped his hands more firmly and kissed them again.

John shifted his hands and intertwined his fingers with his wife's. He sat there, staring at their hands. He slowly blinked away the tears and pulled Mary up and in for a kiss. He cradled her face in his hands and softly kissed her. Mary linked her arm's behind John's head and kissed him thoroughly back.

John broke the kiss and smiled as he said, "Thank you, dear. I love you," and pecked her softly, once again.

Sherlock was back in London. He had just killed the last man to remain of Moriarty's empire. He walked away from the body and pulled out his phone. He dialed Mycroft's number.

"Hello, brother," Sherlock said with a smile, already anticipating his return.

"I assume you've finished your job."

"Yes, so now I need you to tell me something. Where is John living now, he's not at 221B, I've already checked."

"He's living at 34 Chanterbury Road, now. But, Sherlock, you should..."

"Thank you," Sherlock cut him off and hung up the phone.

He hailed a cab and directed the cabbie to John's new address. He was smiling softly with anticipation throughout the cab ride. He didn't know why John had moved, nor did he care. He only wanted to see the smile on John's face when he realized he was alive. He wanted to know that his friend still loved him. He would be so happy when he could finally see his face and know that John waited for him.

Sherlock exited the cab in front of the house. He was walking up to the door when he noticed movement behind the curtains. He walked up to the window and saw John pulling away from a kiss and mouth a sentiment. He kissed the woman again and this time Sherlock caught a glimpse of the wedding band on John's left hand. Married about a year, Sherlock deduced. John turned back to the fireplace and smiled into the flames.

He's forgotten me, Sherlock thought as he walked away.

Sherlock walked briskly down the street and around the corner, disappointment and sadness clouding his eyes. He blinked back tears. How could his best friend have forgotten him? He stopped and sat down on the sidewalk. It began to snow.

The cold of the concrete sank through Sherlock's clothes, but he didn't care. He gathered his knees up to his chest and suddenly his body was wracked with sobs. He didn't cry, he only gasped for air.

He was drowned by the idea that he spent the past three years thinking of no one but John, killing to ensure his safety, and John had forgotten Sherlock. Had erased him from his memories.

The snowflakes landed on Sherlock's coat and slowly melted. Sherlock was not one to make rash decisions, but cold metal of the gun pressed against his leg. He felt an urge to end it all. If John had forgotten him, there was no point to Sherlock anymore. Sherlock's existence, after the fall and before had warped around John and had relied exclusively on the doctor. If John wasn't there, there was no point.

Sherlock stood and continued to walk away. He pulled his phone out of his pocket at typed a message to Mycroft: Never let John know. SH. He hit send as he turned around a corner into an alleyway.

He pulled out the gun and felt the coldness of the smooth metal through his gloves. The wind ruffled his coat as he tossed his phone aside. He closed his eyes and tear fell down his cheek.

His love had left him. He did not exist.

He raised the barrel of the gun and aimed through his mouth. "I love you," he whispered. He pulled the trigger and dropped, his body rapidly cooling and soon to be forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> I know Sherlock's birthday isn't in autumn, but I moved it for the sake of the timeline.


End file.
